


Stay

by The_Inebriated_Literary_Virtuoso



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Breaking Up & Making Up, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, John and Sherlock are meddling, Kissing, M/M, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft Worries, Pining Greg, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 12:46:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2192355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Inebriated_Literary_Virtuoso/pseuds/The_Inebriated_Literary_Virtuoso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft had done it for his own good. Greg disagrees.<br/>A song fic based off of Stay by Mayday Parade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the song nor the characters from BBC's Sherlock. Only the plot is mine.

**_Stay_ **

 

 

**_I need some time just deliver the things that I need for now._ **

**_Everything that I feel’s like a warm deep calm casting over me,_ **

**_And it’s taking me to somewhere new._ **

 

They hadn’t predicted that it would have happened. Neither of the two men had seen themselves without the other, yet it had happened anyway. They had been forced to do so because of timing and circumstance. Gregory Lestrade was fourteen when he met Mycroft Holmes and they were ourteen when they slowly began to become involved with each other.

They had been happy, euphorically in love with each other and so permanent in each other’s lives that most people, including their parents, had assumed that had they lasted long enough they would have gotten married.

They had been together for two glorious years until Mycroft had chosen to go to uni.

Greg had decided he would train in police force and would probably never leave their small town for anything bigger than what he had expected. He was comfortable in his home, it was familiar and he was perfectly fine in knowing that was how his life would pass.

Mycroft was not.

Mycroft was in the want of moving to London, making a name for himself, being a man of control and power and he wanted Gregory by his side.

The first time they had the conversation they both knew what would happen.

“I’m sorry, Myc. I’m not understanding you.” Greg said with a furrowed brow.

“Gregory, dear, I wish to move to London, to study at Oxford and eventually work myself into politics, and I wish to have you at my side.”

Greg sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair. “Mycroft, I love you, you know that. But I can’t do that. Surrey is my home. It’s where we grew up.”

Mycroft squared his shoulders. “Oh.”

Greg immediately put a hand around his shoulders. “It’s not that I think you shouldn’t go, Myc! I just . . . think maybe it’s not the place for me.”

Mycroft nodded and three weeks later he was registered and packing and when he got in a sleek black car and waved good-bye Greg felt something sever between them and cried that night as he lay in bed and realized Mycroft was no longer available to come to him on command.

Mycroft, as he drove away, looked out through the tinted window in the back and to save himself from the desperate and excruciating pain of leaving felt a calm wash over him. They had holidays after all.

 

**_If you believe that everything’s all right you won’t be alone tonight._ **

**_And I’d be blessed by the light of your company,_ **

**_Slowly lifting me to somewhere new._ **

 

They hadn’t seen each other on holiday for two years. They were eighteen and Mycroft had been unsurprisingly busy with his courses and had been unable to come home. They had Skype’d and phoned and texted but they hadn’t touched each other in two years and Greg lamented and masturbated but he stayed. He stayed because he loved Mycroft and knew that this situation was only temporary.

Greg wanted the greatest things for Mycroft and knew that in order for him to get those things he needed to endure this with Mycroft for his sake.

They Skype’d on Christmas and Greg had been ecstatic.

He smiled at the face conveyed on the screen. “Hey, Myc!”

Mycroft gave him a soft smile and it seemed off to Greg somehow. “Hello dear.”

They had talked and talked and talked and they had laughed and for a moment Greg was convinced that perhaps they’d make it and it would be okay. That they would be okay.

He signed off at the end of the night to open presents and knew he always hated saying good-bye. “Good night, Mycroft. I love you. Merry Christmas.”

Mycroft smiled at him. “Good night. Merry Christmas.”

 

It took until he was in bed, feeling the holiday spirit as it moved around inside him, that he noticed Mycroft hadn’t said back.

 

**_Oh can you tell that I haven’t slept very well since the last time that we spoke?_ **

**_You said, “Please understand if I see you again don’t even say hello.”_ **

 

They hadn’t talked for two weeks. It was not by Greg’s fault, but Mycroft had avoided him and ignored his calls and texts and Greg was worried. He had considered perhaps calling Mycroft’s parents but when he did they said he was in perfect health. It was just him then.

One day Greg was laying in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to music when Mycroft burst through the room. He had been home alone and was more than surprised.

At first he had been angry but then happy to see his boyfriend in the flesh for the first time in years.

“Mycroft!” Greg gave him a smile.

The smile quickly dropped when he saw the dull expression in his eyes.

“Gregory, we need to talk.”

 

They talked.

Mycroft had told him that they had to break up, that he was no longer in love with him, that he dragged him down. He shot excuse after excuse out of his mouth and Greg swallowed them like disgusting pills, choking him and causing tears to come to his eyes.

When Mycroft had finished speaking Greg stared at the wall ahead and tried not to focus on Mycroft’s body next to him, radiating warmth unlike the rest of him.

“What am I going to do without you?”

Mycroft put a hand on his shoulder. “Move on. When you see me in the streets one day or in a pub or in a library just move past. Pretend this never happened.”

Greg let out a choked sob.

He didn’t say anything and when Mycroft left and the door shut he fell to his knees and felt all his energy leave him. He cried for three hours until his mother and father found him and when they asked what was wrong he proceeded to cry more. He wasn’t sure what had hurt more, being told to forget it happened, or being told it was over.

 

 

It took months of texting without responses for Greg to finally get the idea and let it go.

He tried to forget it as he went into Police Academy. It worked. He hadn’t remembered that romance, or those wonderful moments and emotions in almost twelve years.

 

**_What a night is, when you live like this._ **

**_And you’re coming up beneath the clouds, don’t let me down._ **

**_All the love’s there I just don’t know what to do with it now._ **

 

Gregory Lestrade moved to London when he was twenty five and was completely motivated to move there by his own prerogative. He had thought that perhaps a change in scenery would alleviate that deafening depression he felt every time he looked at his walls and the memories they held of something he had spent so many years trying to forget.

He was a constable and owned a blank condo where he could forge his own memories and after a year his memories faded and he didn’t remember why politics made him upset, or why he couldn’t read Lord Byron’s poetry without crying.

The failed romance of his youth was forgotten and the name Mycroft Holmes meant nothing and eventually he met a junkie by the name of Sherlock Holmes.The association had been shocking, having seen him rambling and raving like a complete nutter and when he mentioned Mycroft Lestrade had almost forgot what that name carried and what it meant. But he barely had time to think about that again. He could barely recall those memories and he figured it would be better that way. Especially when he could help Sherlock.

Greg had seen promise in him, after he’d came stumbling on a crime scene. Greg had decided to help him and help himself by suggesting sobriety in exchange for cases. Holmes’ older brother had contacted him on more than one occasion but never had they met in person and Greg frankly didn’t give a shit so long as his consulting detective was sober.

After his divorce when he was thirty five Greg Lestrade dedicated all his time and effort to the law and the care of Sherlock Holmes and was proud to say he’d done a good job of it.

It was mid-November the day that his simple life had changed.

 

He walked down Baker Street hurriedly, rushing to get Sherlock his cold cases as John had pleaded he bring them before Sherlock shot something or someone.

As he walked past Speedy’s something from the corner of his eye caught his attention. He paused and looked into the window. Sitting right across from John was a tall man, a man with auburn hair and an elongated nose.

 

Greg froze.

 

Mycroft Holmes. He was there, in London. Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock Holmes’ brother. _Mycroft Holmes._

 ** _Mycroft Holmes_**.

Suddenly the pain he hadn’t felt in twelve years hit his like a train and he let out a gasp. He felt the longing, the pain, the rejection, He remembered the adolescent rejection and devastation and suddenly he was overwhelmed. He felt everything all at once, everything he’d repressed since he was twenty eight and when he looked at the slender body in a suit and holding an umbrella Greg remembered those hands as they used to hold him. He remembered the smiles and laughs and he remembered. He still loved him, he always had. He’d always loved him and he knew he would and he watched as they talked and knew there was nothing to do. He knew that Sherlock was his brother by then but even with just the phone calls and cloak and dagger it had never really seemed true. But staring at that face was like picking at a wound and he fled.

At that precise moment Mycroft looked over and the words that he’d been prepared to tell John had died away. He recognized that face since the moment more than twenty years ago when he’d left him. Left behind the life he wanted for the life he aspired for.

He saw the agony and tears on Gregory’s face and it felt like they were eighteen all over again and when Greg ran out of sight Mycroft got up and ran after him, refusing to let him get away the second time.

When he went outside the envelope he’d been holding was attached to Sherlock’s door and he was nowhere in sight.

Mycroft had pushed him away, he remembered that vividly. He’d left the only man he had ever loved to lay on his floor and sob as Mycroft walked out and refused to save him. He had ignored the texts and phone calls and he had tried to get over it, but day after day as he did things he hated he was reminded of the only sin he had ever committed.

 

Greg hyperventilated in his bedroom for thirty minutes before he began to break down and let out tears and small whimpers. His love was once again, not available. He had all that love, stored away from the time he had loved to the time he had stopped being loved. He had all that love and no idea what to do with it now. He remembered that slow ache, as it filled him in a way he hadn’t felt in so long it felt as though someone had beaten him down with his own emotions. He remembered that face and all he could remember was pleading with Mycroft to stay.

 

**_You know, I still can’t believe we both did some things I don’t even wanna think about._ **

**_Just say you love me and I’ll say, “I’m sorry. I don’t want anybody else to feel this way.”_ **

 

They saw each other a month after that. A measly month for both of them to get their emotions together. It was hardest for Greg. He knew that he needed to be mature, let it go, follow Mycroft’s advice and just pretend to never have known him. It hurt, because Greg was forced to act like he hadn’t once known every little thing about Mycroft.

Mycroft threw himself into his work even more than usual and with a few speculative looks Anthea was distracted, but not really. He was still thinking of the young man he’d left behind, how he’d worn a ring in his early career because he had believed one day they would get married. Once he’d walked away he kept it as a reminder of what he’d lost, of all that he was willing to give up for the sake of the greater good. He had ripped it off one night while he lay in bed in that large flat that had always been too empty and too lonely. Mycroft never cried. He hadn’t cried since he was eighteen. But this time he found he couldn’t.

Instead he had gotten up and gone through the house, with its suffocating silence. For some reason he grew so enraged and upset that he began to tear the painting off the wall, he ripped the paintings from their frames and broke all the glass in the hall and as everything ripped and tore and shattered and crashed against the wood floor he yelled. He watched the artifacts of a life he hated crash against the floor and realized none of it meant anything. None of it. Everything was superfluous if he was unhappy. He broke vase after vase and he sobbed and he wasn’t sure what brought on the self-destructive behavior but he needed it. The shards cut into his bare feet and he needed to feel something, anything that wasn’t regret and longing.

The last glass thing had been a piece of stained glass that hung at the end of the hallway. Gregory had given it to him with his favourite poem on a very nice papyrus melted into the glass. He walked past the rubble and after math of his emotions and took the glass off the wall and as he moved to smash it when a hand stopped him.

“That’s enough, brother.”

Mycroft, with his hair no longer neatly combed back looked up at his brother through his messy hair.

Mycroft didn’t say anything. He just relinquished the glass and slumped against the wall, not bothering with the glass in his hands and feet and how it burned. He let out tears, but they were quiet and he stared at the wall for a long time before Sherlock slowly moved to sit next to him.

“Forgive me, because this is not my area, sentiment, you know. But brother, you are unhappy. Must you be so idiotic to make your own self unhappy?”

Mycroft looked at the broken shards and found it ironic that it had only taken seeing him once after such a long time to be the one who broke down completely. Mycroft let out a bitter laugh, perhaps this was his atonement.

He looked over at Sherlock. “I don’t know.”

Sherlock sighed and nodded his head. “You have made the victory of your ignorance a bittersweet one, Mycroft. Ruining my fun as usual.”

Mycroft looked at the poem in Sherlock’s hand and was secretly glad his brother had stopped him from breaking the one thing he loved in the house full of hateful things.

“How did you know to come?”

Sherlock looked at him and suddenly it felt like their childhood, before everything had been severed and they had been in a constant battle of wits.

“You’re not the only Holmes brother who is finely tuned to when the other is going into self-destructive behavior. I noticed.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything and for a while they just sat there until Sherlock got up and disappeared from the room. Mycroft had hoped he’d leave but he came back with a broom and a bin. He swept up the glass and flattened out the ruined paintings and cleaned while Mycroft slumped against the wall. He found he didn’t have the energy to do anything, to feel anything, to be anything. He sat there and it was an ethereal epiphany to realize he was no longer the man he had wanted to be, but the man that he had modeled himself as. Mycroft felt strange disappointment there.

Sherlock finished and kicked Mycroft’s leg. “Get up you oaf. You should be in bed, what it your obsessive compulsive behaviors and routines.”

Mycroft got up and they walked into his bedroom. He walked into the room and sat at the edge of the bed.

“Why are you doing this, Sherlock?”

Sherlock sat next to him and it was a different Sherlock, it was the one from his youth. That boy who had laughed and played and felt and enjoyed feeling and curiosity and it was his brother.

He looked at Mycroft. “I remembered a time when one Holmes boy had made some terribly irreversible mistakes that had gotten him very deep in a gutter. So far, even, that he needed saving. Now it’s time to repay the favour. As disgusting for me it is to admit I shall sorely miss you being able to get me out of predicaments if you reach a point of beyond salvation. It’s time for you to be the one getting saved, Mycroft.”

That was the first compliment Mycroft had gotten in a long time and he found that it helped more than others words could.

 

Two weeks after that Sherlock was shot.

John called him frantic, telling Mycroft that the hospital didn’t let him go see him and that Mycroft would need to come soon.

Mycroft came as quickly as he could, gave the nurses authorization to allow friends to visit him, and entered Sherlock’s room within the hour.

John was nowhere to be seen but Mycroft had figured perhaps the man needed to eat, after all this stress.

Mycroft saw a head of gray hair at Sherlock’s bedside and forced himself to cross the threshold and every step was heavier than the last. Mycroft felt as though he was walking toward his death.

He sat on the opposite side and Greg looked at him. “Good time arriving. He’s going to be unconscious for a few days.”

Mycroft nodded. “Evening, Detective Inspector. And that is good to hear.” He’d already heard it an hour ago from Anthea.

They sat alone in the quiet for about twenty minutes. “It’s strange. How his words before he got shot were that he loves John. John heard it of course, but what if it had been too late?” He was staring at Mycroft directly and Mycroft looked at him.

They didn’t move their eyes as they lay beside Sherlock.

Mycroft frowned. “If you came here for me, Detective Inspector, then you have been sorely amiss. I would have expected you to be here for the well being of Sherlock, not to proposition me.”

At those words, coming from the same mouth he had kissed twenty four years ago, he snapped. “Don’t you fucking dare, Myc. Don’t you even bother with that. Stop pretending you can forget.”

Mycroft steeled himself, hated this part, hated that he was so good at it. “Forget what, Detective Inspector?”

Lestrade gripped the railing of Sherlock’s bed and tried not to let tears fall as they always did since he’d met Mycroft, whether from pain or happiness, they did.

“Stop it. Just stop it! You can’t do this to me again. I refuse to let this happen again!” Greg tried very hard to rein in his feelings, but he couldn’t. Not like Mycroft had always been able to do.

Mycroft looked at him and Greg saw something there, something not quite human.  
“I don’t understand what you mean.” He did. And it hurt, but this was for the better. He’d dug his grave twenty two years ago and he’d lie in it.

Greg looked down at Sherlock, let out a shaky breath that Mycroft knew was because he was crying and he looked at Mycroft was the saddest, most heart-broken eyes he’d seen.

“Just say it. Say you still love me. I know you do. We wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation right now if you didn’t love me.”

Mycroft looked at him, saw those eyes edging towards tears and was not surprised that even a rough DI officer had been brought to his knees by his worst memories.

“I am afraid I can’t.”

And Greg got up quickly and walked to the door. He stopped, hand on the door, and said, “If I had known this is what you and I would become I would never would have talked to you that day in the library. I couldn’t imagine anybody else feeling this way. I don’t want anybody else to feel this way.”

And he shut the door and as soon as it clicked shut it opened again and Mycroft had hoped that perhaps Greg had wanted to fight for him longer. Mycroft knew that any longer and he’d given in. But John Watson walked through the door and looked at Mycroft’s face, twisted in pain.

“I just saw Greg leaving, he was crying. What did you do to him?”

Mycroft looked away and Sherlock consumed his attention. “Nothing he hasn’t dealt with already.”

And he left the room quickly with his umbrella in tow. While he visited Sherlock in the hospital he made sure only to go at night, knowing that Greg would be on his shift at NSY.

 

 

**_Oh can you tell I haven’t slept very well since the last time that we spoke?_ **

**_I said, “Please understand I’ve been drinking again and all I do is hope.”_ **

 

For the first time in as long as he could recall Sherlock had invited Mycroft to a party. It had been for John’s birthday and Mycroft was more than a bit taken aback but the offer but he relented even if he knew Gregory Lestrade would definitely be there.

The party had been quiet, as most involving to the consulting detective and his assistant were.

Mycroft walked in, was greeted kindly by many and he was Greg standing by the window, looking over at him. Greg hadn’t seen him for eight months since the hospital incident and he had put it behind him, let other things take up his time.

Mycroft examined him and saw the dark circles under his eyes and the deep ink blotches on his sleeve. He had missed him.

When the clock turned to ten and the party buzzed around them Mycroft walked up to Greg, who had taken residence by the window and looked on with a soft smile, looking truly delighted to be there. And he was. Even with Mycroft there Greg loved the party. It gave him time to not have to think. His empty apartment felt even emptier and he hated thinking in the silence.

As Mycroft walked over Greg threw back his drink and knew it would help him dealing with this encounter.

“Gregory.” Mycroft said as a greeting.

“Mycroft, how are you?” Greg said cordially.

“Good.” _Better than you, by the looks of it_ , he didn’t say.

They stood awkwardly for a moment before Mycroft opened his mouth to speak.

“Gregory, I-”

He was interrupted by Greg crashing their lips together, grabbing the hair at the nape of his neck and kissing him breathless. Greg hadn’t meant to do it, but he’d been watching those lips move and wondered if they were still as wonderful as he’d remembered.

They pulled away breathless and no one had noticed them, but Greg leaned in and whispered, “Wanna go?”

Mycroft nodded mutely.

 

Their bodies rocked against each other and as there were sighs in between the sheets and grasping at covers there was a simultaneous sigh between their bodies as they connected as one, having been apart for so long.

 

**_Please . . . Stay._ **

 

They lay in Greg’s bed, worn and satiated and Mycroft had been so relieved to give in, but he knew this wouldn’t last. He’d watched his parents’ divorce, his grandparents divorce. He’d seen his peers’ parents or one of them die. In the end they all ended up alone and that was all he had. He had left Greg because even if he didn’t mean to one day Greg would leave him and Mycroft wanted to beat him to the punch line.

He got up and was slipping on his trousers when Greg rustled from his bed and looked at Mycroft. “Hey, where you going?”

Mycroft deliberated for a moment and Greg frowned and motioned to the empty spot besides him in his bed.

“Come back to bed, Myc.” Mycroft noticed that Greg had always made room for Mycroft in his life, had arranged things around him, to make him feel wanted, to feel loved, to feel needed and appreciated.

Mycroft nodded and went to bed with Greg’s arm wrapping around him. He tried not to cry when he knew would happen as he felt the warmth and happiness radiate off of Greg’s body.

 

**_Please stay._ **

 

Greg woke up to empty, cold sheets and a note.

 

_Dear Gregory,_

_You know why I can’t stay._

_-MH_

 

**_I’ll admit I was wrong about everything ‘cause I’m high and I don’t wanna come down._ **

**_All the fun that we had on your mother’s couch, I don’t even wanna think about._ **

 

Greg had had enough. If anyone had asked him about that Wednesday he’d say it was the shittiest one of his life. First his coffee had spilled and ruined his suit, then Sherlock refused to help him on a case, and then he thought about Mycroft some more and just ruined his entire day and possibly his entire rest of the week.

Greg had texted him after he had left and when Greg had not gotten a reply he felt that feeling when he was a teen and was suddenly very angry at the fact that he’d given up, hadn’t fought against his worse judgment.

He spent Sunday rethinking all of the mistakes he’d made in his youth and he recalled their one night together and he had been so happy to wake up but then the emptiness in his sheets and his chest had knocked into him.

He tried very hard not to think about it.

 

Mycroft went through his week in automatic and while he got things done and his work for the week had been wiped out by Tuesday he knew he had made a mistake. He had left, left again, and the texting happened and Mycroft was not ready to do this again. He was sure he never would be.

He was in his office Tuesday afternoon when Anthea rushed in. “Sir, your brother is-”

She was interrupted by the crash of doors slamming open as John and Sherlock glided into the room with all the eccentricity afforded to them.

“Thank you, Anthea.” Mycroft said as he nodded to her and she left, closing the doors.

Mycroft sighed and looked at both of them. “What is it now? Gotten in trouble with NSY again?”

Sherlock nodded.

“No, but it does have to do with Scotland Yard.” John said.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

“Stop being such an idiot, Mycroft!” Sherlock shouted out of nowhere and both men in the room with him had jumped back in surprise.

Sherlock slammed his palms on the table. “You are being an egotistical, ignorant, selfish cretin! For god’s sake get over yourself and be with him! I shall surely vomit if I have keep seeing him look at me as though I’ve killed his grandmother. Which I could do if I honestly so desired.”

John sighed and shoved Sherlock away from the desk and he looked at Mycroft.

“Listen, Mycroft. He’s really broken up about this. He’s been upset the past couple of days and you just. . . Mycroft you mucked this up by being a right git and it’s time you admitted you were wrong about him, about everything.”

 

**_I’m not strong enough for the two of us._ **

**_What was I supposed to do?_ **

**_You know I love you._ **

 

Greg was sitting at home on Saturday that week and had tried very hard to distract himself with crap telly and it had worked for a bit and as lethargy weighed him down a bit and his eyes drooped there was a ring at his door.

Mycroft saw him open his door in a crumpled Arsenal sweatshirt and he looked so sleepy and his skin was bright and his eyes were so deep Mycroft found he couldn’t stay away anymore, couldn’t deny himself the things he’d always wanted.

He stepped back when Gregory’s eyes shot open in shock. “I’m sorry. I assumed you were not doing anything that required attention. I’m sorry, I should take my leave.” Mycroft had stammered. He was terrified. Terrified of what saying all the things he wanted out loud meant. The hand that held his umbrella shook a bit as he moved away from the door and he only had to take two steps away before a voice spoke.

“What are you doing here, Mycroft? I’m not interested in a one-off.” Greg said and his voice was protective, Mycroft understood that, but it didn’t help his nerves.

 _Just do it, you arrogant fool_ , the Sherlock in his mind said to him.

Mycroft pivoted around and looked at Greg with pleading eyes. “May I come in, to explain?”

Greg looked at him, saw there was actual emotions in his eyes and he hoped. He hoped against all hopes that he could save this, save what he had failed to save so long ago. He walked back to his living room and left the door open for invitation.

Mycroft followed and everything was automatic, his actions had been perfunctory because his brain most certainly had chosen a good time to go on vacation.

Greg motioned him with his hand. “Come on, to the kitchen. I’ll make us tea. This is going to be a long night.”

 

They sat with their steaming cups at the table and Greg raised an eyebrow. “Well? Why are you here, Mycroft?”

Mycroft let out a shaky breath and tried to speak. “I. . . Sherlock has informed me of a mistake I’ve made. Well, multiple mistakes, and I’ve come to correct them. I-”

Greg interrupted him. “Listen, if you’re here about the other day you can leave now. I don’t demand an apology. I’m perfectly capable of getting the hint. I’m a big boy, I’ll handle myself.”

Mycroft nodded. “No. You misunderstand-”

Greg looked at him. “I’m sure I haven’t. Look, this isn’t necessary and Sherlock bullying you into this isn’t what I would have wanted anyway. I don’t need any forced apologies. I’ll be fine.” He most certainly wouldn’t.

But he’d get by.

Mycroft slammed his fist against the table and for the first time in almost thirty years Greg saw emotions, strong emotions, in his eyes making his calm gray eyes look like a storm. “Dammit, Gregory Lestrade, let me finish!”

Greg sat back, slightly shocked, but convinced.

“I have. . . You must understand that I love you. You know that I love you. I have, always. Since we were boys I have and this. . . I am not good with emotions. You knew, know, this.”

Greg nodded his support.

“I left because I loved you. I left because what else was I supposed to do? Surely you’d be bored of me when I was finally back from school. I wasn’t strong enough for that inevitable event. I was not strong enough for the two of us. I had no other choice. I did it because eventually one of us would walk away, or one of us would die. I have seen you live without me, Gregory. You had married once, you were capable of moving on. But if you left me Gregory, through divorce or death. . . I cannot live. I cannot move on. I’ve tried before and I have failed.”

Greg sighed and put down his tea. “That wasn’t your decision to make, Mycroft. It was never your decision. We, or well, at least I, had been happy with you. Even when you weren’t there because everything in our youth was temporary, I knew that. I knew that and I had hoped our relationship wouldn’t be one of those temporary things.”

Mycroft looked at him, looked into those eyes he missed and he wasn’t sure how to feel about that revelation.

Greg continued. “Walking away was your choice, Mycroft. It was a choice you made without me. You weren’t strong enough for the two of us but I never asked you to be. I never asked you for anything you couldn’t already give.”

They sat there in silence until Greg stood up and walked out of the room. Mycroft’s shoulders slumped as he knew the conversation had ended and he got up and as he was at the front door he heard rustling behind him.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Greg asked in a very firm voice.

Mycroft turned. “I assume this conversation is over, is it not?”

Greg said nothing at he walked up to Mycroft with his hands behind his back and when he was standing a meter away from Mycroft he pulled the scarf from  behind his back.

“Do you remember this?” Greg asked softly, looking into his eyes.

Mycroft nodded. “No, what is it? What does this have to do with us?”

Greg gave him a small smile. “I stole it from you before you had gone to uni. It was your favourite scarf. We used to wrap ourselves together in it. You said I had to keep it for as long as I’d love you.”

Mycroft stared at the scarf, remembered those words and that day as it was tinted in yellow happiness.

“Oh.”

Greg moved forward and wrapped the scarf around them. They stood barely inches apart and when Gregory moved to wipe a tear from his eyes Mycroft wasn’t even aware he’s been crying.

Greg slipped his hands behind Greg’s head and Mycroft grasped at his shirt and pulled him forward and held onto him as though he’d slip away.

He let out a soft sob and kissed Greg’s hair.

“Oh god, how I’ve missed you.”

Greg smiled into the crevice of Mycroft’s neck and Mycroft felt moisture there, knowing he was crying.

“How I’ve loved you.”

 

**_Please just. . . Stay_ **

 

They lay in bed, naked, smiling as they faced each other and Greg felt sore but it was welcomed as much as the soft smile on Mycroft’s face.

Mycroft put his hand on Greg’s naked hip and smiled at him. “I love you.”

Greg let another tear fall onto the pillow. “I love you.”

They stared at each other, going through the years in each other’s eyes. Mycroft looked at him and it felt just like coming home after one long trip. _Home._

 

The morning came and Greg woke up to soft kisses on his neck and a warm body clinging to him with need.

 

_**Stay.** _

 

One year later and Sherlock and John had donned on tuxedos.

John looked into the mirror and smiled at Sherlock. “I can’t believe your brother is marrying Greg before we get married.”

Sherlock nodded. “My brother has missed a lot of Greg’s life. He doesn’t want to miss any more.”

They arrived at the small chapel in Sherlock’s childhood town and he felt it strangely reminiscent of those years, back when, way back when Greg had made his brother unerringly happy and satisfied with the world.

Greg was terrified of Mycroft running again and Mycroft was just petrified as a general feeling.

The ceremony went by slowly and when the priest motioned for Mycroft to say his vows he nearly fainted and his knees felt weak looking at Gregory Lestrade.

“I have made many mistake in my life. I have tried to fix them and by some gracious and supernatural being you have forgiven my grievances. I want to labour to show you that you are the most important and most cherished man I have had the honour of knowing and of loving. Loving you is a gift. And while I’ve left, I wish to stay now. I wish to stay with you for as long as humanly possible.”

Greg had several tears in his eyes when the priest motioned for him to say his vows and everything felt like too much. But it felt so good, so overwhelmingly good and fantastic that he wasn’t sure any of this was real.

“Mycroft, you are an ignorant, sometimes selfish, and definitely mysterious man. And I love you. God help me, but I love you. I intend to spend our life together staying with you and leaving with you when you feel it’s what you need. Everything is done by partnerships and I am so glad you’ve chosen me. I would love for you to stay as long as you can and I’ll do the same.”

 

And that night as they lay between the sheets and they smiled and laughed and lived Mycroft felt alive. He felt every nerve on the ends of his body and he felt the beating and pumping of his blood and he was so glad he stayed. _He stayed._


End file.
